Steve is a Weredog, What Do We Do?
by niennavalier
Summary: Or the one in which Steve Rogers is a weredog and nobody knows what's going on. Rated for language.


**A/N: A bit of background on this: this is an AU my friend (raleighpuppy on AO3, who you should totally check out, especially if you're into Pacific Rim) and I came up with after a pretty random text conversation. In short, Weredog AU. And it was so much fun to write. Not giving away much up here, but, just for reference, this is Steve and Bucky as kids in Brooklyn (probably around 1931 or 1932) and from Bucky's POV. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Steve and Bucky, or any of Marvel's stuff. Only the idea is ours.**

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Chapter 1

Goddammit. Bucky had ducked into the store for literally one second to use the freaking bathroom, and now Steve was gone. The little punk was waiting outside when he left. How the hell'd he disappear like that? The kid got winded on the damn stairs – he couldn't be that far. Problem wasn't how far away Steve was, though. Bucky was an athletic enough fourteen-year-old, so catching up wasn't really an issue. Was more a question of where the hell the kid had gone off to. If history meant anything though (and his teachers all swore to God it did), chances were the little blonde was down an alley – or equally secluded place – getting his shit beat out by some big brute. How many times had Bucky had to come over and save the boy's ass, and all because he couldn't keep his mouth shut?

More than he ever wanted to try and count, really.

Sure, he loved Steve Rogers like a little brother, and couldn't help but admire his sense of justice (not really a common commodity in this day and age), but it'd seriously help if the punk learned a little thing called self-preservation.

Jesus, Bucky was gonna die of a heart attack someday if things didn't change. And he really didn't want that day to be today. He wasn't gonna let it be today. Hell no.

Bucky shook out his wrists as he ran, prepping himself for the inevitable fight to come, straining his ears for the slightest clue.

"Bucky!" The boy pushed on even harder, ignoring the alarm tolling like a bell in his head. Steve was too damn proud to ever ask for help like that – preferred getting his ass kicked and claiming he had the guy on the ropes. But who cared? Bucky'd sworn to protect his friend, and that was what he was gonna do, dammit!

Reaching the alley he suspected his friend's voice came from, Bucky skidded to a stop. And froze.

Holy shit.

Maybe he was wrong, and he was having that heart attack right now. Or maybe he'd been slipped some drugs or something (dammit, he _knew_ some of those kids around here looked shady). Because why the hell else would he imagine this giant, shadowy dog-thing attacking his friend? Last he checked, Bucky wasn't prone to hallucinations, and he really wanted to keep it that way, but he couldn't help but wonder if, maybe, just maybe, this was him losing it.

He really, really hoped not.

The creature was off and running within moments. Bucky honestly only caught a quick glance of it, so he tried (with minimal success) to put that aside and focus on the more important problem.

"Steve? Hey, you hear me?" Bucky knelt down at this friend's side, eyeing warily the way he clutched at his arm just below the elbow and the trails of bright ruby seeping through his fingers.

"Yeah, m'fine, Buck," the smaller boy half sobbed.

"You ain't foolin' anyone like that," Bucky responded, tone deceptively light. "Gonna get you home. Think you can walk?"

Steve nodded.

And barely made it two blocks.

Pretty soon, Bucky was all but dragging Steve home, and the dead weight was only confirmation of what he'd already figured out: something was wrong.

Steve Rogers didn't cry. For Christ's sake, he got his ass handed to him on a regular basis and good-near never shed a tear. He'd get knocked unconscious first; Bucky knew that from experience. So this? It was all kinds of wrong.

Getting into the Rogers' apartment like this wasn't an easy task, but Bucky managed it, laying the blonde down on his bed.

"Steve. Steve? You awake?"

No response. Bucky's heart beat a little faster, a little harder. Frantically, he pressed the back of his hand to the other's forehead.

Burning up.

Shit.

Bucky very near leapt up from his knees. Where the hell had this fever come from? Why'd he fall unconscious so quickly? Did this have something to do with that weird shadow from earlier?

Nothing was making any damn sense!

Rushing around the house, collecting anything he knew or deemed useful, taking care of Steve and sitting vigil at his side, Bucky honestly had no idea what was going on. Not that he was sure he entirely cared that much, either. Because how could he, really? Who cared all that much the how? Or the why? His friend was dying! And there wasn't a damned thing he could do. Nothing except lay a cold towel on the kid's forehead and hope that, maybe, Sarah Rogers wasn't working the night shift at the hospital tonight.

Thing was, hope at this time was a fragile thing. Hope on its own didn't do a freaking thing; the two of them had learned that the hard way. Didn't help to sit around praying for some miracle – helped to get up and do something about it.

So Bucky kept up doing all he was able. Cold towels, occasionally talking, though he honestly didn't know whose benefit that really served, his or Steve's.

"Don't you dare give up on me, you got that? You hear me? I swear to God, you die tonight, and I'm gonna – I'll – I'm gonna follow you and – and bring you back and beat it into you that we're goin' together. You ain't goin' first. And I'm – I'm not either. Together. Like – like we promised." He took a shuddering breath, looking down at the floor, the pallor of his friend's skin too _wrong_. It just…it wasn't Steve, not the way he should be. "You're not supposed to go out this way, okay? It's a stupid way to die, and – and I'm not gonna let that happen. You're not allowed to die on my watch, hear me? Steve? You listenin'? Just wake up, okay? Please. Just wake up. I've gotta make sure you – you never hear the end of it." The whole end came out in a rush.

And suddenly it was all too much. Too damn much.

The dark-haired boy sprung suddenly to his feet and stormed from the room, dragging the door shut behind. He collapsed against the wall, wiping furiously at his eyes because – he wasn't crying, dammit! He wasn't! He'd already prepped himself for this kinda thing. For Christ's sake, the little punk got sick every year during every possible season; Bucky'd already worked on telling himself that the sickness, plus all the other daily shit, didn't mean any kinda good, and that any of these days might be Steve's last. He thought he'd come to terms with that.

Still, he obviously hadn't. But things had never looked so bleak before, and never so suddenly. And Bucky had no idea what to do – had never felt so helpless – now with _that_ becoming a real possibility. 'Cause he had no clue what in hell he might do if it came to that. Steve was his closest friend, his only real friend, if he was gonna be real honest.

Bucky began to pace the hall, bright now with the light of a full moon shining through a high window. What _would_ he do? 'Course, Bucky was no idiot; he knew the other kids thought well enough of him. Making friends had never really been a problem. Just that they weren't Steve. No one had the same brand of loyalty, the same brand of justice, as Steve Rogers. This overwhelming sense of good wrapped up in a tiny package. Yet, there wasn't anyone else like that, not that Bucky'd met, anyways. And he didn't want this one epitome of everything right about the world to slip away. He wasn't gonna let it.

A couple dull thumps and low moans came suddenly from the room.

Shit. How long had he been in the hall? Couldn't've been that long, right?

How much had he missed, buried in his thoughts?

That, Bucky didn't want to hear an answer to.

He burst into the room. "Steve? Steve!? The room was empty. _Empty_. Shit. The bedsheets were a twisted heap, and the window was closed, silver beam of light shining through and illuminating a wiggling mass of clothes in the middle of the floor.

Bucky froze as that sunk in. Clothes should not be moving. He crept closer, immediately jumping back again when the head of something poked out and holy—!"

What? A puppy? The hell was—? Never mind. Not important. Not now. There were more important things. He jumped up on the bed, testing the window: not tampered with, and Steve had a hard enough time opening it on a normal day. Stupid, he knew that wasn't the answer; he'd just wasted time! So Bucky leaped down, sprinting out to the rest of the apartment, calling his friend's name all the while, mysterious puppy at his heels the entire time.

He ignored it.

Because where the hell was his friend?

Eventually, he ended up back in Steve's room, plopping down on the bed, head in hands as he tried to puzzle this out. He hadn't been out of the room that long, and would've heard if Steve'd gotten out. But where could the punk've gone anyways? He was unconscious, last Bucky checked. He growled loudly to the empty room. "Steve, where the hell are you?"

As if on cue, the puppy balanced on its hind legs, placing its front paws on the boy's knees. Bucky swiped the animal away; he didn't have time for distractions!

But then, he got a good look at it.

A tiny golden retriever puppy. Unusually thin – thin enough to see the faint outline of ribs. And the brightest blue eyes Bucky had ever seen, even though… Didn't these dogs have brown eyes? He could've sworn they did. The whole effect was uncomfortably familiar.

"Steve?" he asked carefully.

The dog yipped happily, complete with tongue sticking out and jovially wagging tail. Like it was answering him.

No. No way. No damned way.

Bucky glanced slowly back at the middle of the room, at the perfect square of silver, at the pile of clothes illuminated within. He knelt down, felt the fabric. Still damp with sweat. Definitely the clothes Steve'd been wearing before. He looked back at the puppy.

'Course he'd heard the stories as a kid. Not that he'd ever believed them. People turning into wolves? Stupid. But now? Well, the day had already been pretty screwed up. He wasn't gonna discount the possibility now.

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By the time morning broke, puppy disappearing and Steve reappearing, perfectly healthy and _human_, Bucky was glad Sarah Rogers had been working the night shift.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading! There's gonna be one more chapter coming, so keep on the lookout for that. And there's art for this too, drawn by my wonderful friend raleighpuppy, posted over on tumblr. Thanks again, and remember: reviews are always lovely!**


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